


Underhand Teachings

by Holde_Maid



Category: Highlander (Movies), Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Off-screen Relationship(s), Relationship(s), S&M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-19 07:30:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,929
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9425999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Holde_Maid/pseuds/Holde_Maid
Summary: Warnings:swearing, mention of very adult concepts such as sm and rape.





	

Methos sat by the little chess table, shredding a paper scrap from the dustbin into tiny pieces. Duncan had invited him to dinner in the barge, because he had felt like cooking, but not like eating alone. It had been an enjoyable evening, except during the last hour, the ancient Immortal had become more and more withdrawn.  
  
Duncan was sitting on his bed, reading the second newspaper article by now and almost missed Methos' "Duncan?"  
  
"Mmmmm?" he responded. The ancient Immortal could hardly expect anything more forthcoming, he felt.  
  
"What was it like?" One of those openings that forced you to express interest. Bleh.  
  
He laid the paper aside with some impatience. "What was _what_ like?"  
  
"The Dark Quickening." Methos gathered the shredded paper up from the floor, drew the wastepaper basket closer and centered it between his feet.  
  
_Now, what train of thought had brought **that** on?_ , Duncan wondered briefly. It had been ages since then. "Like drowning in someone else's anger." He stood. "I could rise above all that bile and fury and get a grip now and then, but..." He went down the few steps to the main floor of the barge, sighed and looked back at Methos. "The claidheamh )* helped."  
  
As he had before now, Methos waved away this attempt at thanks. "Yes, yes, but what was it like, this drowning in anger?" He started dropping the paper scraps into the dustbin, one after the other, reminding Duncan of an old lady feeding fish with breadcrumbs.  
  
Duncan snorted his disgust, "Ghastly. I felt so ... entitled, and betrayed." He went over to a porthole and looked out, seeking the soothing sight of the Seine's waves. "And powerless." He turned around to face Methos. "Strange, isn't it? I mean, that I felt powerless, when I was changing so many lives."  
  
The shadow of a grin flitted across Methos' features. "If you say so." It felt like there was something he wasn't saying, above and beyond the obvious implications, but with Methos it practically always did. Duncan played it safe and just gave the older man a questioning look. Methos let out an exaggerated sigh. "It's not so strange if you stop saddling your horse from the wrong end."  
  
Duncan pursed his lips. This was ridiculous! "No, hurting people didn't make me feel powerless."  
  
"Wrong end again," Methos retorted sardonically. The bastard was enjoying himself!  
  
Duncan raised one eyebrow, "Feeling powerless made me angry?" It was feasible, but it didn't feel right.  
  
The older Immortal dumped his paper shreds on the table beside him. "More likely integrating the anger triggered memories of your own. Memories of...." He hesitated, then shrugged. "...some vital frustrated ambition." Good grief, now Methos sounded like a hobby psychologist!  
  
"Really, that's more likely?" Duncan inquired sceptically. "Why?"  
  
"Because a Quickening can't take over without something that resonates deep within you."  
  
"How do you know that?" Duncan asked suspiciously. "Have you ever received one like that?"  
  
"Not really," Methos rejoined. "Not as bad as yours by a long shot." Now the feeling of things unspoken was stronger.  
  
"Tell me about yours."  
  
To his surprise, Methos grinned. "I thought you'd never ask."  
  
"Well then, what was your worst Quickening like?"  
  
"The worst wasn't a Dark Quickening." Methos was shaking his head dismissively. "The darkest..."  
  
"Wait, wait, wait!" Duncan interrupted him. "What do you mean, the worst wasn't a Dark Quickening?"  
  
"Well, it wasn't." His elder shrugged, all innocence.  
  
Duncan gave him The Look and waited. In vain. Well, of course. Methos was no Benny Carbassa. "Tell me about it," Duncan eventually enunciated untypically clearly.  
  
Methos smirked briefly, then looked reminiscent. Not in a good way, though. "I like to call it a Stale Quickening. It was like being possessed by a sloth. Just deciding to move already took so much of my energy..." He wasn't meeting Duncan's eye, but his very pores seemed to exude a strange sadness.  
  
The younger Immortal swallowed. "What happened?" There was no answer, so after a bit he tried again, "How did you survive?"  
  
"I improved my efficiency - fewer movements, more pragmatism. And I developed a fierce sense of humour." He grinned at his friend, making him wonder if his leg had just been pulled.

Duncan sighed inwardly and changed the subject, "Back to the Dark Quickening. What was yours like?"  
  
"I had three, actually, when I was much younger. Small fry, by comparison." Methos' shrug didn't quite hide his discomfort, but he wasn't stalling. "Each was different, each had a predominant..." - Duncan wondered fleetingly if he was translating this from the ancient language in which he had last contemplated it - "...kind of anger. The first one was short-tempered, the second a slow-cooker, and the last loud and inconsequential." He shrugged again. "Each echoed something in me as a trigger, but only the first one was akin to my own temperament in the reaction." He eyed Duncan, probably gauging his understanding.  
  
The younger man nodded. "I was so angry at that ... soul taking me over. But thinking back, maybe it's a good thing that it wasn't my..." He broke off. He didn't really know how to express this, and he wasn't keen on saying it aloud, either. There were things in his past that he really wasn't proud of.  
  
"That it wasn't really you," Methos supplied softly.  
  
"Yes," he confirmed. "Culloden showed me my capacity for cold, lasting fury. I don't wish that on anyone."  
  
"No, you wouldn't," Methos retorted with a small smile. "You're not that kind of man. I knew that long before the first time I set eyes on you."  
  
Duncan gave him a long look. "So _that_ was your point?" The ancient Immortal just smiled. He neither nodded nor shook his head. Typical. Didn't even admit the obvious and made you doubt your certainty. "Methos, you’re making this unnecessarily difficult,“ Duncan complained. "Why not say what you mean and be done with it?“  
  
Methos carelessly brushed the remaining paper scraps off the chess table into the waiting dustbin, stood and closed in on Duncan. The fire was back in his eyes, the edge back in his demeanour: "What do you know of the difficulties I have within myself? Nothing!“ His gaze challenged Duncan, but the younger man wasn’t paying it much attention. He was far too intrigued at how Methos could seem such a lamb most of the time and then an instant later made you want to retreat from the threat he posed underneath the civil behaviour. And far too puzzled by Methos bringing something up that upset him and then acting like this. What did that mean? What was he really driving at, fifty chess moves from now?

Oh well, if he had to play along to get there, so be it. "True. You’re not the man to share them with me.“ Now it was his gaze that challenged the Immortal standing so close to him that their noses were only a handspan apart.

Methos chuckled sardonically and took another small step toward Duncan. "Not with you, MacLeod, no. That would be neither wise nor kind nor any other of those flattering adjectives you’ve honoured me with occasionally in that stubborn Scottish head of yours.“ He tapped two fingers lightly against Duncan's left temple.  
  
Exasperated, the Highlander sneered "What, you read minds these days?“  
  
"Always have, MacLeod," Methos retored calmly. "Well, not minds, exactly. I read people. And you're a particularly open book."  
  
Duncan looked down at his shoes. "I've heard that one before."  
  
Methos snickered. "Quite a few times, I imagine, having read your chronicle."  
  
"After or before we met?" Duncan inquired caustically, stepping back to go pour himself a drink.  
  
"Aren't we past this?" came the mildly disappointed rely. "You should know me by now." Before, then. Well, it did make sense, but why did the Old Man even care if Duncan knew? Why did he **want** him to know? It made no sense at all! He poured another for Methos and handed it over.

 _Wait, was that a pop culture reference? So he might not even be serious?_ He sighed. "You know, Methos, I'm never sure whether you're a really complicated man, or a very simple one."  
  
"Neither am I." Said simply, this rang honest enough. Was it? There was that amused smile again, albeit only fleetingly... Gentle fingers clasped Duncan's shoulder. "Let me know when you find out. Cheerio, MacLeod." With that, he turned and left Duncan to ponder why the last impression had been one of sadness.

 

* * *

 

"Defeated yet again by the Highlander's stubborn refusal to see things for what they are," Methos mumbled to himself. The man had no problem with harsh truths, as long as they were romantic. ROMANTIC! Where had he even gotten hold of that crap?! The ancient Celtic stories Methos had heard over time didn't exactly have a romantic ring to them.

 _On the other hand, there's a thought..._ He chuckled. The Highlander sure put strange things into his mind. But then, he usually did. That was precisely what made him so interesting. He challenged Methos's mind, not so much on an intellectual level, but in a way that was peculiar to him. _Good old Duncan,_ he thought, and then he chuckled again.

 

* * *

 

Three days later around noon, Methos slowly sauntered towards Duncan's barge, waiting for a sign of welcome. A dark-haired head appeared in a port-hole and gave him a nod. Without further ado, he bounded up the gangplank, entered the wooden door on deck and descended into the barge's hospitable belly. So far, so good.

"Delivery service!" Methos smirked, holding out the take-out bag he'd brought.

MacLeod raised one eyebrow, took the bag and looked in. "Smells nice," he remarked. "Let's eat."

An hour or so later, Methos felt that the traditions of old had been met, the rules of hospitality been established. Now the subtle goading and nudging began. It wasn't difficult to get Duncan to talk of his love life enough for the older Immortal to say, "I've met this girl... She's into hardcore sm. You know, whips, leather outfits, nipple torture, the works. She's fun."

Duncan was doing his best to seem aloof and happy, but Methos knew what lay underneath. It wasn't romantic. And therefore, the idea was jarring to the man, and four centuries of experience were apparently not enough to change that. "So, how did you meet?" the younger Immortal inquired.

 _That's right, keep looking for the romance,_ Methos thought. _Good old Duncan._ Aloud he answered, "I'd admired her writing for years, when we met at a concert. She..." _Okay, how to word that best for the desired effect?_ "She wasn't quite what I'd expected." _There, that should do it.  
_

 Judging by Duncan's little smile, it did. "What had you expected?"

"I don't know, a refined little old lady, I suppose. An elven princess, even - the beauty of her language doesn't have you think goth sm practitioner," he smirked.

His friend laughed. "Elven princess? Gimme a break! You've pulled my leg quite enough, Methos."

"There was a time when such words held a more earthen meaning. What Scot are you that you hold so little respect for the Celtic myths of old? - Though I must admit," he continued with a turn for the less dramatic, "that the amalgamation with Christian motifs did not do the ancient lore any favours. Saints and elves don't mix well." As he spoke he was sliding back into his scholarly stance; years of training eased the transition. Surely Duncan saw now...?

But no, Duncan clearly was a blind man in a seeing body. Methos rose. "I'll get you one of her books. Ignore the contents, just let prosody and idiom take you on a ride that touches on every elegantly iridescent book you've ever read..." _Oh, no. Not that asinine, indulgent smile, Duncan._ He sighed. "Give it a chance, and then let's see if you don't think of elven princesses."

The Highlander chuckled and assented with his usual good humour. Well, it was something.

 

* * *

 

It took Methos the better part of an hour to decide on the best book. Yes, "Vlad" surely would do it. A bit too blood-drenched for a romance novel, but the language was impeccable. He placed it in a cardboard box, made a phone call and had the package delivered by one of his special messengers, better known as boys from the neighbourhood on bikes and skateboards. Then he went off to train at the gym. Five hours later his cellphone rang and  interrupted his meditation. "Hi, MacLeod. You read faster than I expected."

"I only finished the first chapter, but I know what you were talking about. And I owe you an apology."

"No need to be eating humble pie." He grinned. "Not much."

Time for the next phase.

 

* * *

 

"So, have you finished 'Vlad'?" Methos asked casually when they met a week later at a cocktail bar.

Duncan shook his head. "Too much to do." And it was silly of him to have a bad conscience about it, so he stopped himself from apologising.

"Don't tell me you couldn't stomach it? I mean, I'm pretty sure I saw you read the Marquis de Sade once..." Methos was more perceptive than one sometimes gave him credit for.

"Oh, that." Duncan shrugged. "That's just ridiculous porn. I mean, a man's cock so large that the girl practically explodes? I giggled a lot over it with Amanda. Don't see why it would bother one, you can't take it seriously, anyhow." Okay, yes, it had, a littile bit. Not enough to warrant mentioning it.

"And 'Vlad' bothered you?" There was calculation in the tone. Odd. Were they still playing some mental chess game that Duncan had no clue to?

"It has more potential to do so, but it didn't. I know I'm younger, but I'm not that young," he answered the gambit with a relaxed smile. "I really just had too much to do, and your girlfriend is no Stefan Zweig." He had read Zweig's "Schachnovelle" in one go, stopping for nothing save for a trip to the loo.

"She still has time to learn. She's only in her fifties."

Duncan smiled. "Yes, nowadays that's not old."

"And she's not my girlfriend."

Duncan did a mental double-take and judged he hadn't misheard. "I thought..."

"I know. And yes, we've shared an sm session or two, but that's just mindfuck sex." Crude language was so unlike Methos - why did he use it now? "It doesn't make me her boyfriend." Methos met Duncan's eye, his expression non-committal.

Understanding the sadness inflicted by this situation felt like a priviledge. The Highlander stepped closer and just hugged his friend.

While he let go, Methos asked, "MacLeod, can I ask a favour?"

"Sure."

"Will you join us in a session?"

 

* * *

 

Duncan's expression was hilarious. Methos had to draw on his self-discipline to suppress a giggle. He had left no escape route, it seemed, for after closing the gaping mouth, and after learning he was wanted in an active, dominant role Duncan consented hesitantly.

Eventually he volunteered that his experience was limited to very light sm. He understood the concept, it seemed, and had even heard of safewords )**, but it wasn't his world. So far, so as expected. After all, challenging him had pretty much been the point. So Methos fed him details on what to expect and what to do, keeping a close eye on him. Then he stopped mid-sentence. "MacLeod? What's the problem?"

"Why would anyone want that? I mean..." He sighed. "Why would she enjoy accusing us of rape?"

Methos shrugged. "It is what it is. It's a fantasy. The magic lies in _knowing_ that it's a fantasy. At the point where you stop knowing that, you use the safeword." He breathed, "Just remember that 'rape' is _not_ her safeword." Her own words, roughly. She had screamed them when he had needed a break during their first session. Not for the reason she had suspected. "And remember that you get one, too. Mine's 'Virginia'." Off Duncan's look he added, "Yes, seriously."

Duncan guffawed, clearly releasing his anxiety, and shook his head in disbelief. Yes, this challenged him alright, but he hadn't withdrawn his promise. Good. Maybe he would get the message this time.

And if not, well, there'd be other ways, other chances. Resourcefulness was, after all, Methos' greatest asset. And educating a centuries-old stubborn Scot could hardly be expected to be an easy feat.

 

* * *

 

There are three things you can threaten a mortal with: monetary loss, physical harm, and loss of face. Well, the financial threat usually comes down to one or both of the other two. Rape usually comprises both pain and humiliation, causes both physical and non-physical harm. 

Methos felt, however, that any such cruelty also harms the perpetrator, as it takes away humanity from both parties. And that was why Methos needed Duncan. He had lost his humanity so often so profoundly before that he needed a moving, breathing safeword. Just in case he got too close to losing it again. For, of the session's three participants, Methos was scared the most. He could already feel it, the darkening of his soul... So far, it was okay. As long as neither of the other two could feel it, too. 

And at that, his inner monster laughed.

 

* * *

 

 

  
\- - - - - - - - - footnotes: - - - - - - - - -

  )* claidheamh = Scottish Gaelic for Claymore, sword

 )** safeword = among bdsm pairings, an unlikely word is chosen to signify that the submissive or masochist party wishes to end the session prematurely. This is to differentiate the real wish from protesting as part of the roleplay.


End file.
